


Incurable

by sweetoceancloud



Category: Horatio Hornblower - Fandom, Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetoceancloud/pseuds/sweetoceancloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fill-in, telling the tale that CS Forester did not of the loss of Bush’s foot.  Warnings for gore (lots of it, surgical, heavily described, be prepared), likely inappropriate use of first names for the time period, and equally inappropriate brotherly love.  Not revised.  Also warning for a potentially unnecessary OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

What cannot be cured with medicaments is cured by the knife, what the knife cannot cure is cured with the searing iron, and whatever this cannot cure must be considered incurable. -- Hippocrates.

**Il Refuse, Monsieur le Capitaine.**

“He -- what?” Hornblower was incredulous. What was worse, the bearer of this rather bad news did so in French. Hornblower inwardly cursed his own perceived weakness of having to mentally translate anything said to him in French to English.

The aide sighed, and repeated the dispatch, more slowly this time. “Il refuse d'avoir n'importe quel drogue.”

Hornblower closed his eyes, the translation now complete in his mind. “Damn him. Damn fool, won’t take laudanum,” Hornblower spat under his breath. “Damn stubborn goat of a man.” The very thought of undergoing a painful and horrific surgery – an amputation, a sawing through flesh and bone -- without the mind-numbing benefits of opium, sent a wave of terror through Hornblower such that he tasted bile.

Hornblower wiped nervously at his eyes, and then focused them, steely, upon the aide. “Que diriez-vous de…,” he searched for the word in French, again damning his incompetence, “…brandy?” Hornblower blinked. “Oh. Yes. L'eau-de-vie fine? Boisson alcoolisée?”

The aide shook his head slowly. “Non, monsieur. Il refuse cela aussi.”

Hornblower let a great breath out through his nose, rubbed at his chin, and fell silent.

Accustomed to dealing with the fraternal relationships forged between naval officers in his own country’s service, the aide sensed an all-too familiar state of mania and fear welling up within Hornblower, and began to fret the Captain’s clarity of thought and, moreover, his ability to continue in French. “Perhaps, monsieur, it would be easier if I spoke English?”

“Yes,” sighed Hornblower, “yes, thank you.” He nodded curtly. “Now, on to Mister Bush. You are telling me that he refuses both laudanum and brandy before his surgery?”

“Oui, monsieur. Both.”

“Then, I must see him at once to – to convince him -- otherwise!” Hornblower unconsciously tugged at the open lapel of his uniform coat, working the fabric between his fingers. “I – I will not have any of my officers suffer pain unnecessarily. It is not a cowardly thing, you know, to take – to take -- assistance in such matters.” Hornblower released the rest of his breath in a small huff and cleared his throat. Doing his best to feign resolve, he pushed past the assistant in a half-tentative stride toward Bush’s makeshift hospital quarters.

The assistant lunged after Hornblower, and clutched at the Captain’s elbow. Hornblower, perturbed not only by the familiarity of the man’s gesture, but also startled by the halt in his progress toward Bush’s room, wheeled in nervous anger upon the small man. “How -- how dare you, man!” He swallowed noisily. “Do you realize you keep me from my duties? You keep me from tending to my fr – my officer!”

The aide, however, was unmoved by Hornblower’s display of indignance, and held fast to the Captain’s arm. “First, simply because he says no to it, that does not mean that he has not been given laudanum, sir. We have ways to, how do you say -- sneak -- small doses, and we did so a few hours ago. You understand that the last thing we need in our wards is a screaming, bloody, filthy-mouthed Englishman. Second, I regret to tell you that he does not wish to see you, sir.”

Hornblower’s ire rose exponentially, whether against the situation, against Bush for his piggish intractability, or against the old Frenchman for his insults and deceit, he neither knew nor cared. The questions burst from his mouth like a spiked cannon, and Hornblower could hear his voice explode in echoes down the nearly deserted corridor. “Does not – does not wish to see me? Bush? Why ever not? Did he say as much?”

“Oui, monsieur,” the aide said softly, sympathetically. “In fact, capitaine, I have been told that those were the only words to come from his lips these past eight hours.”

**J'ai Mes Ordres, Capitaine**

“I have work to do, capitaine,” the aide frowned, finally releasing Hornblower’s captive arm. “If you wish Monsieur Bush to be well, I suggest strongly that you leave and return to your quarters until after he is recovered. At least, by your rank, you have the liberty to wander this place at your leisure. Take that liberty, capitaine. I do not know how long my superiors will allow you such favours given, well…,” he averted his eyes, a hint of outrage bubbling up over his face. “Now, if you will excuse me, j’ai mes ordres, capitaine.”

Hornblower could only watch as the small Frenchman shuffled his way down the hallway toward Bush’s door. Bush’s door, Hornblower now noticed, which was open. Bush’s door – which likely let in the sounds of Hornblower’s bellowing just moments ago. Regret and sadness gripped Hornblower as he realized – Bush had given no response, no correction to that Frog butcher’s bold assumption that -- Bush – that Bush had consciously chosen to shut Hornblower out at this critical moment in his life. There had been nary a word, nary a sound, nary a shout in contrary – and for some reason, the lack of it smote Hornblower to his core.

He will change his mind, Hornblower thought. Bush. He is a proud man, William Bush, that must be it. Pride. Yes. Doesn’t want to be seen as weak. But, he will change his mind. About all of it.

Hornblower propped himself against the damp stone wall, and fingered the inner breast pocket of his now bedraggled, powder-stained, and bloodied uniform coat. He drew from within a length of damp, black ribbon. Like a lost child, he worked the ribbon thoughtlessly between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. For the second -- no, Hornblower mused, a sarcastic grin forming on his face -- for the eightieth time that day, Hornblower contemplated his failures and, as usual, fell into a self-imposed melancholy. He questioned his abilities as a sailor, a leader, a fighter, an officer, a captain, and now, as a friend and brother seaman. By the time he was ready to admit that he had failed William Bush, the black ribbon was inexorably entwined amongst his tightly-clutched fingers.

To lose a limb… The horrific images flooded Hornblower’s imagination -- the curved knife, the saw, the blood-soaked, formless, quivering flesh… To have a slab of one’s own living body butchered and discarded like so much dross… He raked his hands violently through his hair, and let his body sink down the wall to the even colder marble floor.

Dear God -- bloody mutilation – shameful, crippling -- sacrificial.

Yet here it was, and the brother Hornblower loved most in all the world was preparing to face that very nightmare. Hornblower was loath to even imagine the thoughts coursing through Bush’s mind, if any. As Hornblower reflexedly curled his toes and arched his feet within his boots, an equally involuntary scowl of disgust and fear overtook the muscles in his face.

It would not do well, Hornblower thought, scrubbing at his blinking eyes, to weep in front of the enemy. It would not do well at all.

**…Lopped Off And Left To Bleed Uncontrolled in a Field Hospital…**

Whispery bits of early-morning light trickled in through the half-open window on the far side of the room. As Hornblower entered, he couldn’t help but blink against one particularly bright ray which hit him square in the eyes. The unwelcome irritation made him cough slightly, and then, sneeze.

With no curtains, hangings, or other fabric to absorb the sound, the sneeze echoed loudly throughout the spartan chamber. Hornblower visibly winced, only at that moment realizing that someone – he couldn’t see whom for the light -- was sleeping, tucked up and bundled under some dust-mote ridden covers on an old, time-worn four-poster bed.

Hornblower took a few uneasy steps into the room, heading toward shadow and out of the invasive glare. Like the sneeze before, his characteristically heavy footfalls scattered noise throughout the room like artillery grapeshot, seeming to ricochet off of every stone and wood surface and bouncing back a hundredfold to the ear.

“Shh!” The sound was abrupt, curt enough to startle Hornblower. He blinked anew, his eyes adjusting again to the change in the light. When his vision focused, he beheld a woman – a lovely, young, red-haired woman – sitting at the bedside, a mass of brown knitting folded in her lap.

“Pardon me, ma’mselle.” Hornblower bowed.

“Madame,” she corrected, in perfect, London-accented English. “Actually, I would prefer it if you called me Signora.”

“Signora?” Hornblower repeated. “But you do not sound Italian. In fact, you do not even sound French.”

The woman clucked her tongue and spat out a breath. “Do be quiet, sir,” she hissed, “that voice of yours does carry. If you’re not careful, sir, you’ll wake… the dead...” she glanced at the bed and trailed her voice off in stark realization of the impropriety of her words. The woman sighed, shuddered, and buried her face in her hands. “I am… sorry.”

Hornblower blinked, sniffed, and nodded absently. Wake the dead… The dead… Collecting himself, Hornblower smiled at the woman, a half-hearted, yet reassuring gesture. However, he could not speak. For the first time in his life, Hornblower had no words. In fact, when he saw the man lain upon the bed, Hornblower’s voice became trapped in his throat, squeezed there perhaps, between his heart and his stomach. The man, he could see, was bedraggled, bloodless, and frail. Yet he slept on his back, his head turned toward the woman, and his hands resting peacefully upon his chest.

Like the dead, Hornblower thought.

It was William Bush, there was no doubt, but somehow, it wasn’t. The Bush that Hornblower knew was a restless and noisy sleeper, constantly snoring, snorting, wheezing, or even speaking in his slumber. This man breathed quietly, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Bush also preferred to sleep with his hair still in its neat, ribboned queue. This man’s uniquely long hair was loose, curled, and unruly, sticking with sweat and water to his bare neck and shoulders, and even some to his face.

Hornblower shuddered and gave a purposeful cough, using his hand to hide his eyes -- his eyes which, once again, produced an obtrusive, unfamiliar and uncomfortable prickle. He bit his lip and inhaled. “How…how fares M-Mister Bush, Signora?”

“You can come closer, sir, he should wake soon,” she smiled. “You are a friend of his, I take it.” The woman gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Please, sir, sit.”

Hornblower pulled the chair away from the bed. He winced and glanced at the woman as the wooden legs scraped against the stone floor. “I am -- his captain.”

“Captain Hornblower?” She picked up her needles and resumed knitting.

“Yes, ma…do excuse me. Signora. And you?”

“I am Signora de Bennedetto. Captain, since we are going to be together for a while, I presume, I would not mind it if you called me by my Christian name, Elizabeth. I realize we do not know each other, sir, but I, for one, do not stand on formalities when there is life and death at stake. I may need your assistance with Mister Bush, here, and to dispense with such formalities, I find, makes the crisis times easier.”

Again, Hornblower was speechless. He had never seen such – such forthrightness in a woman before, or in a man, for that matter. He and Bush had been particular friends and shipmates for what seemed eons, and they still referred to each other with the formal, “Mister.” But then again, times of trouble, hours in the cups, and moments of camaraderie often dictated otherwise.

“Then... then you must call me, Horatio.”

Elizabeth nodded, again averting her eyes to her knitting. “You know, Horatio, Mister Bush has told me his objections to your being here.”

“Yes, I have been informed as much.”

Elizabeth waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “That is of no matter. You are here now, and to be honest, I could use the help.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Truly, Mister Bush was in such a state, I do not think he knew what he was saying, but that is neither here nor there.” She dropped her hands in her lap and regarded Hornblower with a sigh. “To answer your question, Horatio, Mister Bush…”

“William,” Hornblower corrected. “I am quite certain he would want you to call him William, as we are all on the familiar here.”

She smiled. “William -- is faring well – as well as can be expected. He has actually said very little, other than the occasional blasphemy when the small doses of opium wear off and the pain overtakes. It has been hours since he’s had any, actually, and it is surprising now to see him sleep so soundly, given that, and the… nature… of his wound. William seems quite stout, both physically and mentally, from what I can fathom. Then again, I imagine that the battle was fierce and long. The poor dear must be exhausted.”

“Yes,” Hornblower muttered, nodding. “Exhausted.” He paused, absently looking around the room. “How long have you been here?”

“All in all, I’ve been here five years, since my husband, Giovanni de Bennedetto, died,” she said mordantly, “but, with William, which I believe is the question you meant to ask me, I would estimate nearly ten hours -- since shortly after the French soldiers brought him ashore.”

“But, why was he not treated immediately?”

“Oh, but he was, hours ago.” Elizabeth stood and soaked a clean, dry cloth in a nearby basin. She wrung it out, and held it out to Hornblower. “As soon as my brother-in-law, he’s the surgeon, saw him and was told who he was, he had his assistant cauterize and dust William’s wound with flour, pack it with lint, and bandage it. The French soldiers then brought him up here, to me.”

Cauterize, dust, and pack… Hornblower trembled and forced a sick swallow as his mind’s ear replayed the sinister hiss and splatter of a cautery iron encountering bloody flesh. “But… but why…”

“Why the delay? Why hasn’t his leg been amputated yet? Yes, I imagine you are wondering that, aren’t you.” Elizabeth nodded. “Aldafieri learned a new circular amputation technique in Florence last month, and thought William’s leg would benefit from it – as opposed to being, well, simply lopped off and left to bleed uncontrolled in a field hospital. Given his position and standing, it seemed honorable and fitting to give him a proper surgery.”

Hornblower took the cloth, saying nothing. He was suddenly distracted by the numerous questions in his mind concerning his and Bush’s future. In that vein, he wondered at the futility of such particular attention given to the condition of a virtually condemned man.

Elizabeth smiled, reassuringly, seeming to sense the source of Hornblower’s reverie. She pushed the cloth further into Hornblower’s hand, and covered it with hers. “Would you be so kind as to tend to his forehead, Horatio? Wipe his brow, keep him cool to prevent fever, please? I need to check his bandages.”

Horatio contemplated the cloth in his hand, looking back and forth between it and Bush’s face. Steeling his resolve, he sat on the edge of the bed near Bush’s shoulder, and slowly began to mop the glistening sweat from his lieutenant’s face. Bush stirred slightly under the sensation of the cool water, but did not wake. Hornblower gathered Bush’s long, dark hair in his hand and moved it aside gently to daub at his shoulder.

“This should not be loose. It should not be unwrapped,” Hornblower muttered.

“Pardon?”

Hornblower continued his ministrations, his gaze not moving from Bush’s face – mainly for fear of catching a glimpse of Bush’s mutilated limb. “His queue. It’s been pulled out, undone. It is… unbecoming… of his station and office to be seen like this. What is more, if Bush wakes and finds his queue unwrapped, he will be most disagreeable.”

Elizabeth laughed and straightened the covers back over Bush’s leg. “You have never tended to William when he was injured, I take it.”

Hornblower grinned, his saddened eyes still fixated on Bush. “Why, yes, Elizabeth, I have, in fact.”

“Well, then, Horatio, you must know that the Lieutenant William Bush I have learned to deal with these past ten hours is most disagreeable regardless of whether his queue is properly tied. I can only hope, for your sake as his friend, that he is not always this churlish and bad-tempered.”

In spite of himself, and in spite of the situation, Hornblower laughed, his voice once again reverberating and filling the room. “Yes, Elizabeth. Sadly, yes. He is that. But, to be frank, I would not have Bush any other way.”

Bush stirred slightly, making small noises in the back of his throat. As wakefulness gradually overtook him, Bush turned his head and blinked, his pale blue eyes glassy and unfocused. Slowly, then, Bush’s lips parted once, twice, and he exhaled a long breath.

Upon that breath were four words: “I… heard… that, Hornblower.”


	2. Chapter 2

First of all, I would define medicine as the complete removal of the distress of the sick, the alleviation of the more violent diseases and the refusal to undertake to cure cases in which the disease has already won the mastery, knowing that everything is not possible to medicine. – Hippocrates

**Through Hell or High Water, William….**

“I told you, Signora, I do not want to see Mister Hornblower,” Bush hissed, barely above a whisper. Notwithstanding the weakness in Bush’s voice, Hornblower saw an icy flame in his friend’s eyes – fire usually saved for those Bush despised the most -- the French – especially during battle.

“Well, now, William he is just…” Elizabeth began.

“William!?” Bush cut her off, sitting bolt upright. “You call me by my Christian name? What sort of insolence do you… do you…damn!” Bush’s words dissolved in a fit of coughing, peppered with winces of pain, oaths, insults and blasphemies the like of which Hornblower had never heard. Hornblower had to take a step back for fear of being toppled over by the blue streak.

 

“Settle yourself, sir,” she soothed. She cooed Bush’s name, laid him gently back down, stroked his forehead, and brushed the hair from his face. Hornblower couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at the attentions. “There, now, Mister Bush,” Elizabeth breathed, “there.” Bush’s coughing slowed and ceased. “Better? Yes, better now, sir.”

Bush made a growling noise deep in his chest and turned away, gazing out the window.

“Horatio here told me you would prefer it if I called you William.”

Bush swore again, and again, he sat upright. “Captain Hornblower told you incorrectly, Signora.” He again focused his eyes on Hornblower, the anger still burning therein.

Hornblower coughed and cleared his throat loudly, for the first time feeling nervous and a bit intimidated by Bush – and Hornblower did not know why. It should not be that way, Hornblower thought, for a captain to be treated as such by his lieutenant. Perhaps it was the anger which Hornblower did not fully understand. Perhaps it was the knowledge of Bush’s fierceness in battle against the French; and having that ire directed at him instead. Perhaps it was the abject fear of losing Bush forever as a friend and brother.

Before Hornblower could respond, the door swung open and five men entered. Hornblower immediately recognized the old surgeon’s assistant. The other four, he assumed, included the surgeon, a young assistant – perhaps a student, and, judging from the size of them, two burly strongmen to hold Bush firm during the procedure.

The surgeon approached the bedside at a clip, unceremoniously shoving both Hornblower and Elizabeth aside. Without word to Bush, he threw the covers off the bed, exposing not only Bush’s wounded leg, but his bloodied, torn, trousers and naked torso.

The older assistant worked as quietly, quickly and deftly as the surgeon, preparing a table with various and sundry surgical instruments. Hornblower ticked off a list in his mind as he watched the man draw equipment out of a large bag, setting each item out in a precise pattern: knives, saws, forceps, retractors, a metal tourniquet, sponges, cloths, lengths of thread, needles, bandages, and a basin, which he filled with water from Bush’s bedside pitcher.

Hornblower observed the man closely, thinking to himself that the assistant and surgeon worked together well -- like cogs in a clockwork – one seeming to know and anticipate the needs of the other.

Much like William and myself, he mused, much like we may never be again.

At the end, the assistant placed on the table a small, brown, wicker basket, just the right size to cover the end of what would remain of Bush’s leg after the surgery. The Badge of Honour, Hornblower thought.

Hornblower turned his attention back to Bush -- at the wrong moment. Again, without a word, the surgeon tugged at the dressings covering Bush’s leg, and plucked away the soggy, bloodied lint, exposing the horrific wound. Hornblower could not help but suck in a breath through his teeth at the combination of the sight of it and the sound of Bush’s muffled cries of pain.

The bottom half of Bush’s lower leg had been rent completely from the body. Where the foot should have been there was simply open space. Above it, the skin hung in ribbons of flesh, some thick, some thin – shatters of what had been there before. It looked to Hornblower as if some sea monster had taken a great bite out of Bush’s leg, yanking and tearing with great teeth.

Bush’s leg shook with pain and nerves, causing some of the exposed muscle to quiver and shake involuntarily in a gruesome display of the workings of the human body. Bush’s disconnected muscle, searching for a limb to move, reminded Hornblower sadly of a flying fish stranded on the Sutherland’s quarterdeck -- flailing and tossing -- desperate for re-connection with the sea.

Worst of all, the two bones of Bush’s lower leg were exposed, broken at sharp, harsh angles, and stripped of flesh and muscle so that they protruded out, stark and virginal white against the red meat. As the surgeon moved Bush’s leg into place, the bones, bereft of support, clicked together, making a nauseating grinding noise. Bush swore loudly and bared his teeth against the pain.

Hornblower could stand no more. Despite his strong desire to appear steadfast, his stomach could no longer bear the sight. Instead of running out of the room, as was his desire, he strode up to the head of the bed, and sat facing Bush in Elizabeth’s chair. Hornblower covered his face with his hands, breathing shaky breaths between loud swallows and nauseated coughs. Once calmed, he felt a hand touch his own, and lifted his head.

The hand belonged to Bush, who was sheet-white with pain and apprehension. “Are you… are you all right, sir?” Bush whispered, his voice catching and rising an octave after a particularly painful move of his leg.

Hornblower placed his hand on Bush’s and squeezed tightly. At that moment, Hornblower no longer cared why Bush had so desired to reject his company. He would ask Bush later, no doubt, given his own insecurities, pride, and paranoia, but for the moment, it made no matter. “Is that not a question I should be asking you, Mister Bush?”

“Yes, I… suppose it is, but I am not the one who… looks as green as a certain midshipman did his first day aboard ship.”

Hornblower gave a single chuckle through his nose. “I do not think I will ever live that down, will I?”

“I do not know, sir. I… was never on… the Justinian. I wasn’t there… but you know how reputations go.”

“Yes, Mister Bush. Yes, I do.” Hornblower fell silent.

“I can only pray that mine has not been tarnished by events of late. I should… hate the indignity to have been known as the lieutenant who was ordered to be carried below decks when his ship was… captured.” Regardless of Bush’s wistfulness, Hornblower knew full well then and there that such was the source of Bush’s resentment.

Resentment well deserved, Hornblower thought, and which shall be remedied in spades.

The surgeon stood at the foot of Bush’s bed, his hands folded. The assistant stood to his right near the instrument table, and Elizabeth to his left, placing a large copper basin on the floor beneath Bush’s wounded leg. “Siamo aspettiamo, signori. Signore Bush?”

“What did he say, Horatio?” Bush breathed, his voice a staccato, reedy whisper.

“He said, they’re ready to begin.” Elizabeth interpreted, and nodded to the two other men. “These men, William -- they are Henri and Jacques. They will be holding you down. Please, do not give them a difficult time.” She smiled sympathetically. “I have saved some brandy, and I have it at the ready for you should you wish to have it.”

Bush glared back and forth between the French soldiers, eyeing them, Hornblower thought, as if challenging them to force him otherwise.

“No, thank you.” Bush answered, satisfied.

“Are you certain?” Hornblower asked.

“Yes, I am certain.”

“You are a pigheaded fool, Mister Bush. I think you should at least have a drink or two to dull…”

“Is that an order, sir?”

Hornblower shook his head and sighed. “No, Mister Bush, it is not. It should be, but it is not.”

“Duly noted, then, Captain, sir.” Bush knuckled his forehead in salute. “But, I will not have these Frog lubbers think less of England for the sight of weakness in one of her officers,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Now, give me something to bite on, and get on with it.”

The soldiers moved into place. One snaked his arms around Bush from behind, pinioning Bush’s arms back by the shoulders against his muscular body, and trapping Bush’s head facing upwards with his free hands. The other placed both hands on Bush’s good leg, forcing all of his weight downwards, holding it in place. The student stationed himself over Bush’s other leg, preparing to force his weight down upon it.

Bush suddenly grunted, pushing against the binding of his upper body, and his eyes went wild. He thrashed his head violently from side to side. “Let… me… loose, damn you!” he ordered. “Christ, I want… to … see… need to… want to … see…,” Bush growled. “You goddamned Frog, let go of me!” His voice echoed for eternity, it seemed.

“Qu'il permette qu'il regarde son ami, Jacques,” Elizabeth intervened, quietly, “il a besoin de lui.” She then addressed Bush. “You wish to see, to talk with Horatio, correct, William? During this procedure? As a distraction?”

Bush nodded, and Jacques immediately loosened his grip on Bush’s forehead. Bush turned toward Hornblower. “Stay with me, sir… Horatio. Stay with me.”

Hornblower leaned in close, and laid his hand gently against Bush’s face. With the same hand, he gingerly massaged open Bush’s jaw, and when Bush complied, Hornblower fixed a wooden bite-stick, slowly closing it between his friend’s teeth.

Elizabeth is right. Formalities be damned.

“I will stay with you through hell or high water, William. Through hell or high water.”

The Italian surgeon turned to his assistant and held out an expectant hand. “Vincenzo, diami il tourniquet, per favore.”

**Rest, Captain Hornblower, It’s All Over Now.**

The surgeon muttered and barked orders in Italian to his assistants while examining Bush’s leg, which was now bound in a metal tourniquet. Hornblower noticed with apprehension that the flesh downstream of the binding was turning a horrid purple. While Hornblower was desperately curious to know what the man was saying, he was too focused on Bush to occupy his mind with translating the words.

Moreover, Hornblower was uncertain whether he wished to watch the procedure occurring at the foot of the bed, or keep his eyes turned toward Bush’s face, positioned at the head. Although, deep down, Hornblower knew he likely could not stomach the sight of an amputation, still, the thought of it carried a morbid draw – like the fascination in watching a rated frigate slowly toss and sink beneath the waves.

All being said, and knowing Bush’s needs, Hornblower decided it would be best to keep his mind on his friend, to be the diversion that Bush would need over the next few minutes.

Bush’s face was taut in his attempts to appear under control and fearless. However, the rapid blinking of his eyes, and curling inward of his lips gave away Bush’s real feelings.

From behind, Hornblower heard the unmistakeable scrape of a metal blade being lifted from a wooden table. Bush heard the same, Hornblower knew, for at that very moment, Bush’s façade crumbled. He gasped and swallowed against the bite-stick, and his breaths, pushed through his nose, became short and fast.

Elizabeth laid a gentle hand on Hornblower’s shoulder and peered kindheartedly into Bush’s eyes. “Aldafieri is going to make the first cuts, now William. I wish I could say it will not be painful.”

Bush nodded rapidly, the look in his eyes saying, “get on with it.”

Hornblower chanced a look behind him and saw the surgeon, positioned between Bush’s legs, skillfully clutching the long, curved blade in his right hand, and holding a portion of Bush’s leg with his left, as if, Hornblower thought, he were making ready to carve a roast duck or slice a sausage. For a moment, Hornblower’s world slowed as he watched, his stomach lurching like the roll and toss of a sloop-of-war.

It seemed an eon before the surgeon felled the blade against Bush’s leg and made the first cut. As he did so, the knife squelched deep into Bush’s skin and flesh, spilling and spurting out copious amounts of bright-red blood onto the gray bedsheets while the surgeon undertook a practiced series of turns and curves within.

Hornblower’s attention was snapped back to Bush by a bloodcurdling, horrific scream. In all of his time in the Navy, Hornblower had heard shrieks such as these from a distance, but had never seen the source of one until now – and the source of this particular scream terrified him. What was worse, the source of that scream was Bush, and it struck Hornblower deep with the knowing of it, the knowing of how, and the knowing of why.

For the third time that day, Hornblower fought back tears, this time upon seeing the frightfully contorted and nearly unrecognizeable mask of pain that became Bush’s face – eyes screwed shut, lips drawn back, teeth bared, forehead and eyebrows showing deep furrows. Hornblower blinked furiously and couldn’t help but whimper slightly on an exhaled breath.

It’s no good me standing here and of no use, Hornblower thought, and resolved himself to serve his purpose there – to help Bush through this ordeal. Hornblower bent over and tented his upper body over Bush so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Look at me, Bush,” he ordered, “you must look at me.”

Bush opened his eyes, connecting with Hornblower’s right at the moment when the surgeon made the second cut – the one separating Bush’s skin from muscle. Bush growled and moaned deeply with this cut, his eyes rolling, blinking and lolling back into his head with the renewed pain. Bush suddenly turned wavecap white and his face went slack.

“He’s going to pass out, Elizabeth.”

“Let him, Horatio,” Elizabeth said, “it would be a blessing for him if he did.”

Bush did not faint, but opened his eyes again, again fixing his glassy blues on Hornblower. “Still with us, Mister Bush?”

Bush nodded, his breaths still ragged. Yet, he managed to attempt a small, wan, smile. “It… hurts,” he said, his words practically unintelligble from the impediment of the bite-stick.

Before Hornblower could retort with, “that is the year’s best understatement, Mister Bush,” Bush tensed, threw his head back, and moaned anew. Hornblower looked down the bed to see that the surgeon was now pushing and pulling the intricate saw back and forth across a great, bloody chasm rent into Bush’s leg. Hornblower’s stomach flipped and jolted, and, set on staying conscious himself, he turned back to Bush. “It is nearly over, William. Nearly over now. Just hold on. Just keep looking at me, please.”

As the saw cut through the small bone, and slipped down to begin eating away at the larger, Bush thrashed his arms wildly against the new intensity of the pain. The soldier instinctively tightened his grip on Bush’s shoulders. Seeing no other alternative, Hornblower grasped both of Bush’s arms and pinned them down against Bush’s sides. This action elicited an icy, hate-filled stare and a severely garbled, “get the ‘ell off me, H’rnbl’er,” from Bush.

“I will not.” Hornblower matched Bush’s stare with a determined one of his own. “I will not allow you to injure yourself further, now… stay… still!” Bush struggled mightily against Hornblower and the Frenchman, alternating between ear-splitting yells, mangled and jumbled swearing through the bite-stick, and vicious growling for what seemed to Hornblower an eternity. Suddenly, then, at the tail-end of one rather protracted scream, Bush went stock-still. Hornblower felt any resistance or stiffness in Bush’s body dissipate and die.

“I believe he has had enough, Horatio,” said Elizabeth, gently drawing Hornblower back off of Bush’s body. “He has had enough.”

Without Bush’s screams, oaths, and blasphemies filling the room, Hornblower, despite the sound of his own heavy breaths, could hear the distinctive “pop” of the saw finishing its cut through Bush’s leg bones, and then a rhythmic “drip, drip, drip” of blood from the table trickling into the copper basin below.

He turned just in time to watch the student lift the amputated end of Bush’s leg from the table and unceremoniously heft it into the copper basin, causing the blood therein to slosh and splash in a gruesome display. The student wiped his hands against his brown leather apron, which was already slick and glistening with blood and splattered with bits of red and black flesh. The surgeon’s apron, hands, and even his blonde hair were equally bedecked in gore, such that Hornblower fancied him not unlike a meat butcher.

At this thought, Hornblower sucked in a breath and, without realizing, held it. He was still in shock, still watching the surgeon, who was now weaving a needle and thread deftly through Bush’s flesh. After a moment, he teetered perilously, his eyes losing focus, and his hands starting to tingle. Elizabeth, who had been mopping sweat from Bush’s brow, saw Hornblower’s state, and rushed to his side, guiding him down into the chair where he, himself, fainted dead away.

“The great Captain Horatio Hornblower of His Brittanic Majesty’s Navy,” Elizabeth laughed. “Rest now, you and William both need it.” She picked up Hornblower’s dangling hands and placed them gingerly across his chest. “Rest, Captain Hornblower, it’s all over now.”

**I Will Not Have You Wake Again In This State, Bush. I Will Not.**

Hornblower sat on the edge of Elizabeth’s chair, his crossed arms resting on Bush’s bed and his chin resting on his arms. He had sat there for nearly an hour, staring alternately between Bush’s placid, slumbering face and the now-darkening bloodstain at the opposite end of the bed. He worked the familiar length of black ribbon in his right hand, calming himself with the movement and the feel of the silk against the tips of his fingers.

The words, “Leave me on deck! Let go of me, you dogs!” echoed over and over in his mind, accompanied by the memory of his own, brusque order, “take him away.” Take him away…Dear God, did I really say that? Take… him… take… Bush… away. Away. Hornblower shook his head in self-disgust. Inattentive, dismissive, horrible and rude to even the best of your friends, aren’t you, Horatio?

“It was all my fault, William,” Horatio whispered. “All of it, and I am sorry.” Hornblower glanced around the room. “What do we do now, William?” Hornblower laughed. “Not a question I thought I’d ever be asking of you, of all people, my simple friend.” He let his head loll to one side. “Just look at the mangle I’ve gotten us into – a mangle from which I promise we will recover -- somehow.”

Bush continued in a twilight sleep, induced hours ago after Hornblower had fed him a bowl of lukewarm broth -- broth which Elizabeth had laced with a dose of laudanum. As Hornblower had spooned the onion-scented soup into his friend’s mouth, he could not help but remember the assistant’s words, “We have ways to, how do you say – sneak -- small doses…”

Hornblower lifted his arms from the bed, rested his elbows upon his knees, and cupped his head in his folded hands, the thumb of his right hand rubbing absentmindedly against his lower lip. The room, save for Bush, was quiet and empty, the light from the window waning into the oncoming darkness of the French night. Hornblower looked up again at his comrade, Bush’s angluar face casting long, harsh shadows in reflection of the orange and pink sunset sky.

Hornblower sighed and rose to light a candle on the other side of Bush’s bed. As he did so, he again noticed Bush’s long, dark curls cascading helplessly and untamed against the white nightshirt and Bush’s damp skin.

“This will not do,” Hornblower muttered, lifting a wayward strand off of Bush’s neck, allowing the curl to wind around his index finger, “this will not do at all.” He lit a candle, placed it on the side table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. As Bush was facing the other direction, Hornblower had perfect access to the nape of Bush’s neck.

“I will not have you wake again in this state, Lieutenant Bush. I will not.” With that promise made, Hornblower gathered Bush’s hair in his hand, and combed through it with the fingers of his other. He divided the locks into three and began braiding, making a tight cable weave from Bush’s scalp, down to the flipped-up ends of the forming queue. Satisfied, he held the braid fast in his left hand, and with his right, reached across the bed and gathered up the black ribbon he had left there.

Slowly, and deftly, Hornblower began the time-worn ritual of wrapping Bush’s braided hair into a seaman’s queue, finishing it with a small, skilfully knotted bow, as he had done so many times in the past. Only, this time, Bush did not squirm as was his wont. Bush did not try and turn his head to follow the path of a wayward midshipman, thereby ruining Hornblower’s handiwork. He did not curse whenever Hornblower pulled his hair too tightly or yanked out a strand or two with the braid. He did not reach his hand behind to criticize the tautness of the queue or the neatness of the wrap.

In fact, this time, Bush did nothing. Bush was silent.

Hornblower placed Bush’s finished queue gingerly back against the bed, satisfied with his work. Yet, there was something sadly missing, very sadly missing – something, Hornblower knew, that would never be the same -- and Hornblower’s heart broke with the realization of it.

This time, when he felt the bitter sting of tears behind his eyes, Hornblower let them flow unbound and unconstrained.


End file.
